


Nervous Breakdown, Nine Innings - Off Season

by ArtemisClydeFrogge



Series: Nervous Breakdown, Nine Innings [2]
Category: Ookiku Furikabutte, big windup, oofuri
Genre: Crush, Crushes, Drabble, Dreams, Episodes, First Love, Flash Fiction, Frottage, HamaIzu, Hurt feelings, Locker Room Sex, M/M, New Relationship, Nightmares, Pre-Slash, Public Sex, Sexual Content, Slash, Underage - Freeform, Viginette, abemiha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:17:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisClydeFrogge/pseuds/ArtemisClydeFrogge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How love grows from jealousy and admiration, possessiveness and trust. Drabbles and short stories closely following the actual episodes.</p><p>Nervous Breakdown, Nine Innings - Off Season</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Off Season

**Author's Note:**

> This part takes place between seasons one and two, and does not follow any episode material.  
> Some filler for the interim. I was initially concerned, but these scenes don't seem to interfere/conflict with the flow of season two.

**Nightmare**

Mihashi remembers, sometimes, when he least wants to, a feeling from long ago. The stands surround them, and the faces- distorted now- watch him from every angle. He can feel his skin, pulled tight with nerves, bead with sweat, and the catcher seems far away, unreachable. He gulps, shakes, does not know what to do. The eyes watch him, waiting. He knows during this feeling, that the world is waiting for him to fail, and that he will. Every time, he does. He hears the _crack_ , like a bone breaking, and that's when he wakes up, panting, gasping, sometimes shouting. But it is only a feeling, being drug away from him. Old now, a scar.

It happens again one night, the pain fresh and terrifying because this time, _this time,_ there are differences. Colors have changed, faces have taken on clarity; the familiar scene is warped, more terrifying now because it is not the past he is reliving, it is a potential, ugly future.

He sits up in bed, shaking, shaking. He knows, deeply somewhere in his heart, that his would _never_ come to pass, this dream. But it is difficult to convince his wild, racing brain that his Nishiura team-mates- his _friends-_ would never turn on him, never like the boys at Mihoshi. He pulls and twists the blankets until they're around his shoulders, and the shaking begins to level off. He can never get back to sleep after these dreams, not immediately.

 _Oh,_ he remembers, easing his hands into his lap. _The meditation._

Five minutes pass, and he breathes. Breathes in, out, in, out, and he can feel his nerves and muscles releasing their tension. Until a vicious remark repeats itself in Mihashi's brain, _Thank god he's leaving,_ but in Tajima's light-hearted snigger, and a shiver catapults its way up his spine, leaving him shaking as hard as he was when he'd bolted awake.

He knows he has to do something, anything, to relax. Abe would get mad at him if he doesn't get enough sleep. Abe. Abe might know what to do. He reaches out in the partial dark for his phone, and has scrolled through his meager contact list to _Abe Takaya_ before he realizes what he is planning to do. _No way_ , he blunders in his mind, _I wouldn't just… call Abe in the middle of the night. Why did I…?_

It is impossible to say what possessed him, what manic impulse made him think to bother Abe with his ridiculous problem. He already knows what Abe would say. The phone is still in his hands as he flops onto his side, blankets a warm cocoon around him, still open and glowing with Abe's name highlighted. Abe would say, "What are you calling me for? It's three in the morning. You should be asleep. And don't think about eating a snack while you're awake because your metabolism won't process it correctly while you're sleeping."

Then Mihashi would try to explain the awful dream, but even as he imagines this, the dream seems stupid and far-away, ridiculous and impossible. He yawns. Abe would interrupt him and say, "Don't be absurd, we're a team. You don't have anything to worry about."

And then Mihashi would try to say thank you, but Abe would already be saying "Now go back to sleep," and he would hang up. The constructed conversation makes Mihashi flail; what if Abe is mad at him? He shouldn't have called! But, re-focusing on his phone, he realizes that he had begun to doze off, begun to dream, and he… laughs. Just a little bit.

Abe's name is still high-lighted, and it is the last thing Mihashi sees before falling again, deeply, to sleep.

* * *

**It Changes**

The field. A warm sun, no breeze.

Abe can't quite pin the time down- that moment between using Mihashi and being used by Mihashi. Except, Mihashi isn't really using him, is he? No. Mihashi follows him, worships him, adores him, blindly accepts him, but he's not using Abe. So what is it?

At some point, Mihashi ceased to be simply a tool, a means to a win. But then, what was he? They still needed him to pitch; Hanai and Oki… they weren't going to be able to replace the blonde. Not even a little bit. So he really was still a tool.

The idea made bile rise in the back of Abe's throat. _No_ , he thought, _I don't like to think of him that way._

He watched Mihashi pull of his cap and shake out his hair. The pitcher was laughing at something Suyama was saying; Mihashi's hat went back on, and they resumed tossing a ball between each other and Sakaeguchi. Abe went back to maintaining his catcher's glove, carefully working with a rag and leather conditioner. It brought him a kind of peace, and let his mind be at ease. He didn't notice it, staring into the grooves of the warm, black mitt, but his next thought was, _Mihashi has a nice laugh._


	2. Two Years Ago - From December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a special treat. It's a companion to 'Mnemosyne,' from chapter ten: The history between Izumi and Hamada.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mature content.

**Two Years Ago**

_From December_

This guy, he's getting on Izumi Kosuke's nerves. He's tall and loud and brash, and he's... other things. Things that make Izumi uncomfortable. He's an early-bloomer at fourteen; blonde hair wild and wind-mussed and shoulders broad beneath the sun. His legs look strong. He can pitch and he can hit and he's got a smile that matches every ounce of passion he musters for every practice.

He's nothing like Izumi. Izumi is small and serious and reserved; his hair is dark and he scowls, but he loves baseball, too, so there's something. It's a little thing.

Little things. Like the way Hamada Yoshiro laughs. The way he grips a ball, or holds a bat, or kneels in the dirt, face turned toward the sky. Izumi is certain he hates this guy.

* * *

Two long months; a small tournament, a small win, a small loss. Everything is on an even keel; he likes his team-mates, school is all right. He has friends; his birthday was a couple months ago, and it feels good to be thirteen. He feels older. Izumi can feel all the requisite changes- has since he was eleven- but now it's different. He's part of something now. There is a feeling, however, that darkens his moods.

* * *

His body catches on before he does. It's not the first time he's touched himself, released against the wall of the shower and sighed. But it _is_ the first time there was a _face_ in his mind; the first time his actions had a clear focus of _intent_. Blonde hair, strong shoulders. Kneeling on the bathroom floor, Izumi aims the spray of water into his face and stops breathing for a moment; it's not fair.

* * *

Sometimes he's distracted during practice; painfully, angrily. Hamada gets close to him, smiles, and he wants to throw things. Sometimes, he does. After batting, he'll swing hard enough that the bat flies while he runs, and when it hits the ground, the sound is _loud_.

But it doesn't cover up the sound of Hamada cheering, or saying his name.

* * *

It's February. It's been odd this season- sometimes dry, sometimes wet. Kosuke is in his room, alone and angry. He's been crying. He hates it, but he hadn't been able to stop for the last hour. The awful feeling in his stomach hadn't gone away, even though he'd wanted- _so much-_ for it to vanish and never come back.

"Why me, why me...?" he murmurs, picking himself up from his bed and its damp pillows; he looks around. There are baseball magazines, gum wrappers, books and papers, and clothes strewn about, nothing out of the ordinary. There are no signs that he can see, no red flags or warnings. There is a band poster on one wall, a little league participation trophy, a drawing he'd done when he was five, found in his mother's collected things.

Nothing seems to say, _I'm different. I'm not like the other boys._

So why him?

* * *

It wouldn't be so bad except Hamada is _always_ nearby. And if it's not Hamada, Izumi _thinks_ it is. How many times, really, has he been out and about in the city, seeing some tall, broad-shouldered blonde- his heart beat suddenly mangled? It isn't fair.

He stares at the girls as they go by, tries- sincerely, earnestly- to enjoy them; their softness, their faces, their curves- but his insides are unresponsive, and his mind wanders. And if he sees that kind of man, a man as handsome as Hamada, he feels hot and ashamed and scared.

And so when Hamada tries to be friendly with him at practice, he's venomous and defensive, terrified, thinking always, _Does he know? Does he know? Does he know?_

* * *

Weeks go by. There's tension and Izumi _knows_ he's about to snap. One way or the other; his sex drive is way, _way_ up, and his mind will not be swayed from the fantasy of someone tall and strong and blonde. He takes a hot shower every day after practice; he eats dinner and pretends to be too tired to have lengthy conversations with his parents. They accept it. Izumi has always been a little serious, and as long as he keeps eating healthy and keeps up his grades, they have no worries.

Izumi worries all the time.

* * *

Hamada is making him nervous. The practice game is over, the team is showering down, leaving for the evening. The blonde has been _so_ friendly, taking Izumi's curtness with grains of salt and heady, reverberating laughter. Dressed from his shower, hair dripping, the boy sits, heavy and tired, on a bench and lets his head drop forward. The pull in his neck is wonderful, relaxing, and Izumi feels the tension easing out of his shoulders.

Until he feels hands. The tension leaps back into his muscles and he startles, wild, before the hands clamp more tightly on his sore trapezius muscles. He lets out a small gasp and catches his breath because he _knows_ , he absolutely _knows_ whose hands these are. They're broad and warm and strong, and the smell of clean soap is fresh on them; Hamada's hands, kneading, firmly, into his shoulders.

"Just relax, geez," the blonde laughs, squeezing.

Izumi tries to roll his shoulder away, to shake Hamada off, but the effort is weak, the intent unclear. "Don't-" he growls, but Hamada only hums and _digs_ in his thumbs, right into the good spots, and Izumi can't help but groan and go limp, hardly able to keep upright.

He doesn't know it, but Hamada is smiling, eyes dark. He is absorbing the scene, frantic to pull the punch of contact before he loses control; Izumi's back, the lines that lead to his neck, tee shirt bunched and pressed around his arms. Yoshiro holds his breath, running his fingers along Izumi's damp scalp before trailing over his shoulder, down his arms. This is the greatest, because the skin is laid bare, still warm from water, pliant.

When Izumi lets out a brief, strangled groan, low and quiet in his throat, Hamada retreats. He lets his hands brush over the small boy's shoulders one more time before clapping them down, companionably.

"Well, see you tomorrow!" he chirps, slinging his pack over his back and jogging from the clubhouse.

Izumi bites his lip. His knees are suddenly pressed together, so tightly he's shaking. His breath is labored, arousal heavy and hot and needful- inescapable and shameful.

He knows he wants more and he _hates_ himself for it.

* * *

The rest of the week is tortuously slow. Hamada isn't paying him much mind, focusing on baseball and the team and school and whatever else it is that keeps him occupied. Izumi is pissed. It's all he can think about, ever, that stretch of time in the clubhouse, with Hamada's hands nearly, _nearly_ , roaming his skin.

He bites the end of his pencil, furious and unable to concentrate on algebra. _Find the 'x,'_ he thinks angrily to himself, _Fuck._

What bothers him the most is how _bothered_ he is that Hamada is finally leaving him _alone_. The excessive attention and friendliness has abruptly petered out to the merest of salutations at practice- and Izumi doesn't understand why. But he _hates_ it.

* * *

At the end of March, Izumi erupts. He simply snaps. After practice, still sweaty and sticky and red-faced, he corners Hamada by the lockers, fists clenched. Their team-mates sense a fight brewing- they scatter, the captain nervously locking the door from the outside and reminding 'any stragglers' to turn the pin on their way out.

Sometimes, everyone knows, it's best to just fight it out.

"What is _with you?_ " Izumi hisses, struggling to keep his eyes on Hamada's surprised face, and not his exposed, slick torso. Hamada shakes his hair, pulls the sleeves of his undershirt away from his forearms, and Izumi can't help but glance over. He knows he's flushing.

Hamada frowns, an unusual expression for his generally bright face, "What?"

 _What? What?_ Izumi wants to scream. _What_ is how Hamada has been treating Kozue lately; his kind looks and helpful hands on _Kozue's_ bat and _Kozue's_ swing. A long moment goes by, and despite the force and meaning in his thoughts, Izumi can only sputter, "I mean- what- what do you _want?_ "

A sigh. The image of Hamada slowly leaning backward, against the wall, with his hips forward and his thumbs hooked in his uniform's belt loops. Izumi _hates_ him for making him feel the way he does. For putting heat in his body and confusion in his heart and anger in his head. Hates him for _making_ him different. He wants to punch him in the face; but that face is so pensive, so far away, that Izumi's fists relax and with that concession, he can only drop to the nearest bench, hands cradling his forehead.

Hamada watches. This will be his last chance to turn away, to _run_ away. From this moment, he will wonder for the next two and half years if he did the wrong or the right thing.

The younger boy is breathing heavily, embarrassment and fury competing in his throat for the right to scream or cry. A shuffling, cleats in front of him, incredibly close. He startles, gaze shooting up- it follows a natural path along Hamada's thighs, firm in the striped uniform, his hard abdomen, damp chest and shoulders and neck, and to his serious- strangely, queerly serious- face. For the first time, Izumi has disquieting understanding of how _big_ and surely _strong_ Hamada is. His heart clenches, fearful.

"I guess I want... you," the blonde intones, voice seeming to dare Izumi to rebel, to give reproach.

But Izumi can't do anything of the sort, because he can't now even breathe. His breath is trapped, completely trapped, in his throat, unable to pass his lips. Yoshiro glances around, but knows already that the clubhouse has been long deserted. He drops carefully to his knees, grasping Izumi by the shoulders as he does.

"Say something. Say anything."

But Kosuke can't, he just can't. He lets out a gasp, strangled and small and pathetic. He had deluded himself into thinking that _good_ would come of this. That some sort of closure would arrive if he finally just _confronted_ the problem. Deep down, though, he had known. And he hadn't prepared. He'd gone through with his ridiculous plan, and now here they were.

He licked his lips. Deep down, he knew. He'd _wanted_ this.

And then Yoshiro is crashing their lips together, broking no argument. Instinctively, as if he is being attacked, Kosuke's arms go out, pushing insistently at Hamada's chest. Nothing changes; Hamada is stronger, and whether Izumi was ready or not, he's given the older boy control of the situation. His arms get trapped between them; Hamada is pulling him closer, tightly, against his chest. A hot blur; Yoshiro's mouth working against his, insistent.

It takes little time or effort on his part to break Izumi down; soon, the smaller boy seems to have dropped any pretense of protecting himself. His little hands go up, wrap around Hamada's neck, and he kisses back without a hint of restraint, tongue and mouth hot within and around Yoshiro's.

He pulls Izumi against himself, selfish and shocked and unwilling to lose this chance to get what he's wanted since he first saw the younger boy; lithe and small and tough, and hilariously sullen and cold. A kind of challenge; a kind of sickness. He pulls his prize upward, manhandling him toward a wall. Izumi pants and gasps and makes the most gorgeous noises Hamada has ever heard; more delicious than any pornography or fantasy he's built from the sounds Izumi might make during practice. He pulls and tugs and nearly _rips_ the uniform and undershirt off of the dark-haired boy's chest; it's beautiful, freckled and pale and sweating.

" _Yes,"_ he groans, dragging a hand against Kosuke's ribs, down to his slender hip.

Sensory overload; Izumi's head is spinning, heart pounding. He can't possibly deny how good this all is, how the tension has risen and strained between them, only to amount to _this._ The wall is cool against his back, and Hamada is crowding him with his body- large and golden and furnace-like. He moans, pressing into the fingers stroking his nipple. There is _so much_ heat. It's everywhere, like fire, on his skin and in his body, deep and tingling in his lower half, concentrated without mercy between his legs. Kosuke reaches out, finds Hamada's hips, and drags them close, wanting to _do_ something with this feeling.

Hamada seems to know, seems to oblige. He rolls his hips, fast and heavy, and Kosuke shouts, one of his legs jerking upward, wrapping around the older boy. He has _never_ felt this good before. His nerves are ablaze with raw information- more than he has ever processed before. All he can do is kiss Hamada, wildly and wet, and react.

Hamada _loves_ the reactions. Every gasp and shudder and groan is like an electric shock to his sex; it drives him against the smaller boy, unable or unwilling to slow down, to give room to any doubts that may have had time to form. He knows it's selfish. He knows it is rape.

But it is the best rape; something so young and wanton and fresh and _willing_. He's undone the fronts of their uniform pants; his knees are bent, and Izumi is hiked halfway up the wall, bucking into his hand, leg tight around his hip. Yoshiro maneuvers his own sex against the other's boy's and Izumi's head drops back. His neck is long and exposed and slick with sweat, and Hamada latches on to it, sucking and feeding on and into the lovely, desperate sounds Kosuke is making.

Izumi's small hands digging into his shoulders, a trembling, rolling groan of pleasure; release, one shortly after the other. Wet, hot, breathlessness. They slide together, to the floor, panting.

It was _so good_.

After several minutes, Izumi's legs stop shaking and Hamada eases them up, into the shower. Kosuke still hasn't spoken, and every time he makes eye contact with the older boy, he blushes and looks away. But his expression isn't angry, or frustrated, or betrayed. Only reflective, changed. They scrub away the evidence, stow their hardly more filthy than usual uniforms in their bags, and leave the club in silence.

The old tension is gone, replaced by something altogether more tenuous and strange.

* * *

At first, nothing seems changed, and Hamada can't seem to approach Izumi during their off time. He lets himself hang on the younger boy, who is as surly and cross as ever, but less apt to throw him off. The team assumes they've come to an agreement. But it isn't quite so; it isn't until four days later that they _really_ do.

Hamada had gone into the bathroom, urinated, and was about to leave when Izumi stomps in, pulling his shirt off as he approaches. He backs the bigger boy against a stall door and pulls him down by the jaw. The kiss is hot and demanding and makes Hamada _hard_.

"Walk me home," Izumi states, releasing the blonde and turning on his heel.

He does.

* * *

For the next seven months, they work out a routine. Izumi isn't sure what to call what they are doing, but he knows there are many aspects of it that are _wrong._ But he chooses not to deal with it. In spite of everything, the stress-relief that comes from being touched by Yoshiro outweighs all doubts he has. Even now, he thinks it's laughable that not _once_ did he worry about being caught, that day in the clubhouse. That first time.

Yoshiro makes his worries vanish. Makes him feel _good_. It's worrying because he knows this isn't a path he would normally be allowed to pursue. They get away with it by keeping it a secret, the most carefully kept one he has ever known. Sometimes, he remembers that he is _young_ and that he should be ashamed, that he should stop. But he can't stop.

He doesn't think he'll ever stop.

But one day, he does.

* * *

He won't call it love, because it embarrasses him, and because it's too early in his life to know, to truly understand. But he does _care_ and it does hurt that he can't have Hamada to himself the way that he sometimes wants. That he can't flaunt what they have. That he has no one to talk to about what they do, or how it makes him feel. Sometimes, he is intensely frustrated.

It's his birthday. He'll be fourteen, the same age as Hamada, if only for a month.

He knows what he wants.

He tugs Hamada aside before they enter his home for the family celebration. Pulls the blonde down and whispers in his ear, "Take me all the way tonight."

Hamada flushes, grins, and kisses him fast and hard, before they enter the house.

* * *

It is spectacular. It hurts and it feels good and he feels _so_ close to Hamada. But Hamada says, breathless when they have finished, "I love you," and it _scares_ him.

* * *

And then, he finds out the family is moving. Just... moving. He doesn't know what it means for him, or for Hamada, but he brings it up anyway because as long as he's pretending to be adult enough for what they're doing, he's going to pretend to be adult enough to keep Hamada... informed.

It's his last practice with the team. Everyone is gone, like that first time they were together. Izumi has a feeling of foreboding that is impossible to pinpoint. But it festers in him, dark, painful.

He gets right to the point. "My family is moving. In a week."

Izumi isn't quite sure, to the present, what he expected. Something romantic? Something over-the-top? Anything but what Hamada does.

He doesn't say goodbye, or kiss him, or warn Izumi not to lose his email. He doesn't cry or hold on to him. He just... walks away, without a word.

Izumi knows he should follow, call him- anything, but he doesn't. He isn't sure he even knows how to, or what to say if he did. All he knows is that there is a cold and empty place in his chest; a place that Hamada must have been filling with his touches and warmth and goodness. With the way he would hold him and kiss him and speak to him, far beyond the things he did to make them feel good.

Izumi leaves the field, goes home. Finishes packing and spends the rest of the week lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. He wants to cry, but he doesn't know why, and he can't seem to make it happen. He doesn't have any energy, and he hardly eats, but he never finds the courage to contact the other boy.

It isn't until half a year later, still unpacking, that he finds one of Hamada's shirts, folded among his, that he understands. He doesn't know if it really does smell like Yoshiro, or if it is his brain tricking him, but it seems to and finally, in agony, he cries.

Because he loved Hamada back, stupidly, foolishly, in youth, but he did. And now it's over.


End file.
